


stupid

by DeconstructedIronhide (InsertCoolName)



Series: Sinday Drabbles [26]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Couch Sex, Drunk Sex, First Time, Getting Together, Grinding, Hand Jobs, I mean kiiinda?? Just in case, Ironhide gets a tooth punched out off-screen so, M/M, Minor Injuries, Other, Pining, Pre-Canon, Pre-Earth Transformers, Pre-War, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, and an exasperated Orion Pax, and an off-screen barfight, energon mention???, he's just done with Ratch and 'Hide's shit, there's a blood mention??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 13:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17868359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertCoolName/pseuds/DeconstructedIronhide
Summary: “That wasreally stupid.”Ironhide lets out a sighing exvent. “Yeah, well,” he says, reactivating an optic to peer at the medic, “if you haven’t noticed by now, Ratch, I’m not exactly the smartest mecha at times.”Especially when it comes to you.He gives a shrug and deactivates it once more. He had sounded a lot morewearythan he’d meant to saying that. A lot morehonest.Whoops.“Yes, I’ve noticed.”





	stupid

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr drabble featuring @pining-for-peace's muse Ratchet, although really this is just my overall headcanon for how these two would've gotten together before the war. Not beta read.

Silence falls between Ratchet and Ironhide once Orion leaves the room.

The new gap in Ironhide’s dentae has finally stopped leaking, _thank Primus_ , but his entire jaw _aches_ . His entire _frame_ aches, actually. He is covered in scrapes and dents and, even after getting cleaned up, he _still_ feels grimy, as if he still has energon drying on him. It makes him feel _twitchy_ . Of course, that could _also_ be caused by the medic glaring at him from the chair on the other side of the living space, but–he’s going to ignore that for now. Or at least _try_ to.

All Ironhide wants is a long soak in the washrack. Maybe Ratchet would let him use his before he leaves; Ratchet’s is _bigger_ and a whole lot nicer than the public washrack in the academy’s living quarters.

…then again, judging by the annoyance Ironhide can feel _radiating_ off of the medic, maybe not.

“That was _stupid_.”

Ironhide just hums in agreement, not bothering to look away from the ceiling. It was.

“Even for _you_.”

Ironhide hums again. It _really_ was.

After a couple more moments of silence, Ratchet stands and walks over to the couch. Ironhide raises his helm to watch, tensing in case he has to catch the mech should he fall - Ironhide had gotten into the brunt of the fighting, but Ratchet had taken a good punch or two, as well, and that was _after_ a few drinks - only to make a disgruntled noise when Ratchet grabs his chin, forcing him to open his intake. It’s not _rough_ , but it’s firm, and Ironhide glares as Ratchet takes a look at the gap the missing fang has left.

“You can get it replaced,” Ratchet says matter-of-factly, tipping Ironhide’s helm back to get a better look. “You’ll need to go to someone that handles mods like the one you have, but otherwise there’s no damage that time won’t take care of.” He tips Ironhide’s helm in another direction, then, seemingly satisfied with the quick examination, he lets his servo fall away.

Ironhide isn’t sure if he actually felt that slight lingering press of a thumb to his bottom lipplate, or if he just _imagined_ it.

Narrowing his optics, Ironhide runs his glossa along his dentae before shaking his helm. “Nah,” he says, giving a somewhat-tired but nonetheless _proud_ grin. “I think I’ll leave it. I think it adds _character_.”

Ratchet mutters something under his breath; it sounds suspiciously like _sure adds something_ , but before Ironhide can complain about it Ratchet collapses onto the couch next to him, making Ironhide jump in surprise. He reaches out to make sure the medic is alright, but freezes and lets his servos fall back to his lap when Ratchet grunts.

He’s fine.

More silence. Somewhere down the hall, Orion bangs around a bit, putting the stuff he’d used to help clean Ironhide up away in the washroom. Ironhide can almost hear him grumbling from all the way out here; Orion hadn’t gotten hurt at all, thank Primus - he’s so small and Ironhide always _worries_ \- but he’s probably even more upset than _Ratchet_ is. Not just at _Ironhide_ , he’s mad at Ratchet, too, because this was mostly _Ratchet’s_ fault in the first place, really, but–

Ironhide chuckles, deactivating his optics. What a right mess this night has been.

After a few moments, Ratchet turns his helm to face Ironhide. Even with his optics deactivates Ironhide can tell he’s being glared at again.

“That was _really stupid_.”

Ironhide lets out a sighing exvent. “Yeah, well,” he says, reactivating an optic to peer at the medic, “if you haven’t noticed by now, Ratch, I’m not exactly the smartest mecha at times.” _Especially when it comes to you._ He gives a shrug and deactivates it once more. He had sounded a lot more _weary_ than he’d meant to saying that. A lot more _honest_.

_Whoops._

“Yes, I’ve noticed.”

This time it’s Ironhide’s turn to grunt. He should probably leave now. Nevermind the washrack, Ironhide can use the public one when he gets back to the academy. Or just–crash on the cot in the back of the workshop and worry about it next day cycle. Either way.

He should probably leave _now_.

Ironhide sighs again and resets his optics, opening his intake to tell Ratchet he was going, but all that escapes is a short noise of surprise when Ironhide suddenly has a lapful of medic to catch. He grabs Ratchet’s hips without thinking, wanting to make sure he doesn’t tip over from the suddenness of the movement. He looks at the other mech in confusion, but before he can ask just what in the _Pit_ Ratchet is doing, Ratchet crashes their lipplates together in a rough semblance of a kiss. Ironhide makes another small noise, not necessarily one of pleasure - _his_ _jaw fragging_ ** _hurts_** **-**  but after a few moments it morphs into a moan, and Ironhide _melts_.

Ratchet tastes like magnesium and expensive engex.

The medic settles into Ironhide’s lap, pressing into his frame and holding his helm between his servos. He’s a bit sloppy, but Ironhide doesn’t blame him, nor does he care; Ironhide’s faceplates can be a bit awkward when it comes to kissing, at first. But Ratchet seems to catch on pretty quickly, and he tips the weaponsmith’s helm until he’s happy with the angle, teasing at Ironhide’s glossa with his own and nipping at his bottom lipplate when Ironhide can’t help but laugh. Nipping _hard_.

Breaking the kiss for a moment, Ironhide groans and reactivates his optics - _when had he deactivated them again_ ? He moves his servos up Ratchet’s sides, automatically dipping his digits into any gaps he can find in search of something _sensitive_ to play with, and at the same time Ratchet drops one of his servos to Ironhide’s chest and _pulls_ , as if to bring their frames even closer together. He exvents against Ironhide’s faceplates, still glaring, but even Ironhide can see it’s half-sparked at best.

“ _Stupid_ ,” Ratchet says again, the servo on Ironhide’s chest beginning its own exploration as Ironhide continues his. Ironhide just makes a noise of agreement before a thumb is pressing his intake open again, and Ratchet dives back in.

They spend several minutes panting into each other’s intakes and pawing at each other in an attempt to get a reaction out of the other, but before long Ratchet seems to get upset and he pulls away, getting off of Ironhide’s lap and standing to his pedes. Before Ironhide can even think about asking what’s wrong, Ratchet yanks at him by the protruding components on his chest, maneuvering Ironhide until he’s laying down flat on the couch, and once Ironhide realizes what Ratchet is trying to do he does his best to assist, propping himself up on his elbows and letting one leg fall over the edge of the seat so Ratchet has enough room to climb back up and kneel between his thighs before practically _sprawling_ over Ironhide, chestplate to chestplate. The movement grinds their modesty paneling together, and one of them _gasps_ , Ironhide isn’t sure which.

It might’ve been both of them. Ironhide’s betting on it having been both of them.

Ironhide’s servos return to Ratchet’s hips, and one of Ratchets slips underneath a pauldron, making Ironhide moan as Ratchet begins tracing at the rarely-touched components he finds there. Ratchet kisses at the side of Ironhide’s helm, around the disk of Ironhide’s audial sensor, dragging his dentae against the metal, and Ironhide gasps again, jerking up into the medic as he tilts his helm to give him access to his neck. Ratchet seems all to happy to take the invitation, and he works his way down to Ironhide’s throat before nipping, and Ironhide _keens_ . “ _Ratch_ –”

Belatedly spurring himself into action, Ironhide’s servo moves from Ratchet’s hip towards his modesty paneling, and he paws at the warm metal, making little noises in askance. Much to his delight, Ratchet actually opens up, and his spike slides right into Ironhide’s servo, making the medic groan into Ironhide’s audial as Ironhide gives it an experimental stroke. Reaching off from underneath Ironhide’s pauldron, Ratchet shifts his weight from one servo to the other and reaches down for Ironhide’s paneling, making the weaponsmith hesitate. That damn codpiece actually has to be _removed_ , he can’t just _open up_ and _that_ means _stopping_ –

For the umpteenth time this cycle, Ratchet manages to surprise him. _Somehow_ he gets the manual latches undone - really Ironhide can _almost_ understand it, Ratchet is a _medic_ and he’d know stuff like that from just _looking_ at a mecha, wouldn’t he, and _gods_ thinking is _very difficult right now_ \- and he shoves at the disengaged plating, sending it clattering to the floor next to the couch before his servo immediately returns to palm at Ironhide’s spike housing. Ironhide arches into the pressure with a hiss, releasing his spike and thrusting up into Ratchet’s grip. Ratchet returns it with a thrust of his own, grinding down into Ironhide, and Ironhide sets to a rhythm against Ratchet’s spike, stroking up the shaft a couple of times before rubbing at the crown of the head with his thumb, spreading the bit of fluid already leaking out. Ratchet does something similar, and Ironhide makes a long, low noise, deep in his voicebox, before ducking his helm to capture Ratchet’s lipplates in another kiss.

Everything beyond that point is a bit of a blur; Ratchet’s frame is hot and heavy on top of Ironhide’s, and his servos are firm but gentle on his spike, playing the weaponsmith like a fine-tuned plasma harp. Ironhide does his best to keep up, trying to find out what amount of pressure works the best for drawing a specific noise out of the medic, or what speed makes him twitch into Ironhide’s servo, but it’s a losing battle - for _both_ of them. Eventually they simply end up rutting against each other, into each other’s servos, Ratchet panting wordlessly against Ironhide’s neck while Ironhide himself exvents in a quiet litany of _oh, gods_ and _please, Ratchet_ and _yes, like that, like that_ and–

Ironhide overloads first, a loud cry escaping his voicebox as something _pop_ s in his spark, sending charge searing throughout his frame as he spills onto his abdomen, Ratchet still working at his spike. Ironhide increases his pace on Ratchet’s, desperate to bring Ratchet over as well, and between that and the charge transferring from Ironhide’s frame to his, he follows in a matter of moments, grunting into Ironhide’s neck as his hips stutter through the sensations. Only when Ratchet falls still does Ironhide remove his servo, sticky from Ratchet’s transfluids, and rest it back on Ratchet’s hip as he catches his breath.

Ratchet manages to remove his servo from between them, as well, just before collapsing into Ironhide, making the weaponsmith grunt at the oversensitivity. He makes no effort to move Ratchet otherwise, though, and instead uses his servo - the _clean_ one - to rub at the medic’s backplates, holding him close as they both come down from their post-overload highs.

…they’re going to have a lot of talking to do. And hopefully Ratchet _will_ let him use the washrack before he leaves tonight. Ironhide has no shame about making a mess, but walking from one end of Iacon to the other coated in both _his_ and _his_ _partner’s_ transfluids is _another thing entirely_.

…maybe he wouldn’t have to leave, though.

* * *

 

 _How_ Ratchet and Ironhide missed Orion _slamming the door after himself_ as he rushed out of the apartment right before paneling started opening, Orion will never know. He is _beyond_ _glad_ those two stopped being _idiots_ about everything, but he is still _very mad_ about the fight, too, and he _fully intends_ on chewing them both out in the morning.

Maybe a few good overloads from each other will relax those _glitches_ into _actually listening to him_.


End file.
